


Of Braids and Beauty

by Majestrix



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Multi, Youtube Tutorials, hair politics, old men getting in trouble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-11-03 13:03:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10967823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Majestrix/pseuds/Majestrix
Summary: Apparently, Ichabod will do almost anything to make his many times great-granddaughter, Melody, happy.





	Of Braids and Beauty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [irishlullaby13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/irishlullaby13/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Of Heroes and Villains](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7002271) by [irishlullaby13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/irishlullaby13/pseuds/irishlullaby13). 



Ichabod takes a deep breath and releases it with relish. He is hard pressed to imagine anything better than a quiet Sunday afternoon with nothing to do but relax before an open window and breathe the crisp autumn air whilst reading a book. 

Well, he can think of a few things, but Abbie’s currently quite cranky and isn’t in the mood to see him. Ichabod supposes he understands – he had felt himself going mad while being held prisoner by the Masons and he’d had full rein of an entire room in which to pace. His beloved Siren couldn’t-- _shouldn’t_ \--even do that. 

Perhaps he should avail himself of Abbie’s company though she’s warned him away. Quite often Abbie says or does something completely opposite to what she truly feels, as if she’s not entitled to emotions and comfort. Staring at the window but not truly seeing, Ichabod decides he _will_ call upon her for the afternoon even if it means he is to offer himself as a verbal punching bag for most of the visit.

But first, his book.

Ichabod is not yet to page three when he hears a familiar sound that never fails to bring a smile to his lips. 

“Granddad!”

Ichabod waits patiently until Melody bursts through the door of the study, glancing around and nearly missing him by the window. He watches her smile triumphantly.

“There you are,” she proclaims, as if Ichabod had been hiding from her. 

“Yes, here I am. Why are you yelling in the house?”

She pauses for a second, teetering against the door before she gathers her footing. 

“How was I supposed to find you if I didn’t yell?” Melody asks instead.

Ichabod merely looks at her. 

“In my day, one looked for the person they wanted instead of raising their voice.”

“The house is too big,” she says.

“It’s not that large,” he admonishes, but in the back of his mind he knows it is; it can, and often does, house five or six people besides Granny, Latisha, Carol, Melody and himself in any given week. 

“I was on the ground floor, Grandad,” Melody says. “If I looked in every room on the first floor it would take forever to find you.”

“Forever, hm?” Ichabod asks, a smile tugging at his lips. 

“Yes, forever,” Melody says with an earnest nod. “And you’re on the second floor so I would have had to take another forever to find you.” She looks down at the book in his hands and brightens. 

“Did you finished it yet?” she asks eagerly.

Ichabod holds up the tome lent to him by his numerously great-granddaughter. It’s a malleable paper volume with a serious and harried-looking young girl with round glasses and curly red hair. 

“I am only on page three,” he says. “But I have reservations beginning a series on the fourteenth publication.”

Melody sighs loudly. 

“Grandad, we talked about this. Mallory and Jessi join The Babysitters Club in this book, and since they’re my favorite characters I wanted you to start there.”

“Yes, I do remember,” he says patiently. “But how are we to discuss it at our next book club if you don’t permit me the time to read it?” Ichabod and Melody have found many a hobby to bond over. One of the many things they both love to do is read. Melody was thrilled when her “granddad” was actually quite interested in the many different colorfully-bound series on the bookshelves lining her room, and on the spot decided to start a book club for just the two of them. 

Melody deflates. 

“That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about,” she says. “So I’ll be quick.”

Ichabod closes the book and places it in his lap, straightening and giving Melody his entire focus. 

“Then proceed,” he says.

“So,” Melody wheedles, crossing the room so she can stand beside Ichabod. “You know how I’m supposed to go to Amber’s party tonight?”

Ichabod nods slowly, wondering where this conversation will lead. 

“I do,” he prompts when Melody doesn’t continue. “I’m to take you to Miss Amber’s residence at six o’clock with the caramel popcorn and to make sure you’ve packed your night headscarf.” He glances up and frowns. “Which you’re still wearing.”

“That’s part of the problem,” Melody says. “I kind of went to bed without it on last night and I messed up my braids and because I wanted to make sure I looked nice, I took them down but Mom can’t redo them because she’s working overnight and she’s still sleeping and Mommy’s just going to tell me I shouldn’t have taken them down, even if they were fuzzy,” she finishes all in one breath.

Mom is Latisha and Mommy is Carol--that, Ichabod knows. As for the rest, all he can do is nod slowly for her to continue.

“So…” Melody puts her hand on Ichabod’s forearm. “Before the party can you take me to the beauty salon on Clover Avenue? Please?” 

Ah. 

Ichabod’s been here before. Melody asks him for something that appears paltry on the surface but when Latisha and Carol find out he is reprimanded and given the “side-eye” until they forgive him.

“Melody, it appears your mothers have already made their decision on the matter,” he says as she shakes her head rigorously. 

“But they didn’t! They only decided they weren’t going to do it,” she says. “That’s not the same as not letting me go to the beauty salon.”

Ichabod concedes her cleverness with pride. 

“That is true,” he admits.

Melody squeals and throws her arms around him. 

“So you’ll take me?”

“I shall ask your mother first,” Ichabod says, rising to his feet.

“No!” Melody whines. “She’s going to be cranky if you wake her up and she’ll say no.”

Ichabod again must concede her point. 

“I will not make the mistake of taking you somewhere without your mothers’ permission.”

“But-”

“Melody, I am sorry, but the answer is no,” he says firmly, trying valiantly to ignore the way her bright brown eyes are filling with tears.

“Then I don’t want to go,” she says quietly. 

“I can’t imagine why not,” Ichabod says. “It is all you’ve talked about at the dinner table since you brought home the invitation.”

“But it’s supposed to be a fancy party,” Melody says. “I don’t want to go wearing just a stupid ponytail.” Suddenly she stops and looks at him with cautious optimism. “Grandad, you know how to braid, don’t you?”

Ichabod blinks. 

“I am capable,” he admits. 

“Because I saw you braid the Siren’s hair,” she says as if he hadn’t responded. “So you can do mine.”

“But the Siren wasn’t going to a fancy slumber party,” Ichabod reminds her.

“Yeah, I know you’re really good at looking at pictures and making what you see, right?”

Ichabod feels as if he’s being pushed into a corner. 

“When the need arises I am known to be skilled at replicating what I’ve seen with reasonable precision,” he says. 

Melody beams. 

“I’ll be right back!” 

Before Ichabod can open his mouth to protest, the young girl bolts from the room. He looks down at the book on his lap and sighs. 

“Miss Mallory, it seems our adventures together must be postponed,” he says, and puts the book on the table just as Melody returns with her cell phone.

“I’ve got something better than pictures, Granddad,” she says as she presses play. “I’ve got YouTube!”

Ichabod’s familiar with YouTube – when his questions become too numerous Master Corbin directs him to the app on his smartphone and lets the audio and visual medium instruct him on the subject. Ichabod takes the device in hand and watches as an attractive, young, brown-skinned woman beams at him.

“Today we’re going to do a statement braid. These braids demand attention, work great with any outfit, and are classy enough for any event. Let’s start with a French braid crown. This style will bring out the inner princess in anyone!” she promises.

Ichabod looks up at Melody, who nods at him encouragingly. The thought of not at least trying in the face of so much faith and optimism wrenches his gut. Today, Ichabod Crane learns he cannot withstand the thought of disappointing his granddaughter. 

“Very well, where’s the comb and detangling cream,” he says weakly.

Melody grins and produces both - from where Ichabod is not sure, before handing them to him and sitting in front of his chair. She takes off her headscarf and her hair immediately expands into its naturally voluminous state.

“Heavens alive,” Ichabod can’t help but mutter. There is just so much hair. 

“Don’t be afraid, I believe in you,” Melody says firmly.

Well, with faith like that how can he fail? 

“Let me watch first,” Ichabod says. “I don’t want to misstep once I begin.”

“It’s going to be good,” Melody promises, as if she can guarantee it with force of will. 

It’s times like these Melody reminds Ichabod of himself most intensely, and just hopes the young girl is right. 

~*~

Ichabod comes down the back stairs that lead directly into the kitchen and smiles cordially as Granny navigates the corner around the butcher block on the end of the island with one hand. 

“Good afternoon, Granny, how was your slumber last night?” he asks as he retrieves his favorite mug from the cabinet and begins concocting his favorite cappuccino beverage. Out of the numerous gifts he received on his last birthday, the shiny coffee beverage machine with its many buttons and fifteen-page instruction manual from Carol is his favorite. If he has the ingredients in-house, with a bit of research from the Google, the popular drinks at Starbucks are easily replicated for far less than what they charge.

It’s a travesty, really. When will -

Ichabod is jolted from his pre-rant musings by Granny clipping the back of his leg, causing his knee to bend abruptly. 

“Granny,” he admonishes.

“Why ask me a question if you’re not planning on listening?” she fires back. “Thought I taught you better than that.”

“Apologies, of course it is quite rude to strike up a conversation in which I have no plans of participating.” Ichabod flushes and punches the last few buttons required to begin his double caramel latte before turning to give her his full attention.

Granny scoffs and produces a bundle wrapped in a napkin and hands it to him. Ichabod pulls the napkin back to find two glazed doughnuts. 

“Those are the last,” she says, looking up at Ichabod fondly. “I didn’t want you to miss out. I know how much you like your sweets.”

Ichabod flushes again, but for an entirely different reason. 

“Thank you for thinking of me, Granny,” he says. 

“I was in labor with you for twenty-six hours. How am I gonna forget about you?” she demands, looking at Ichabod as if he’s lost his faculties. 

“Still,” he murmurs, now used to the lapses. Still Ichabod experiences the odd heart pang every now and again; when Granny looks at him during these little episodes it’s obvious she’s not seeing _him_. “Would you join me in partaking of this delectable and unexpected treat?”

“Those are for you,” Granny says firmly. “I already had two.”

“Granny,” Ichabod admonishes again. Someone must have left the pastry box where she could reach it. 

“They were sugar free,” she says defensively. 

“Good. I wouldn’t wish Latisha to find out otherwise,” he says, happily biting into one of the doughnuts. A bit of warmth still lingers in the airy pockets of the soft pastry and the glaze fractures perfectly.

Can this morning bear any more gifts?

“Latisha ain’t worried about me,” Granny says gleefully. “She’s looking for you.”

Ichabod swallows wrong and winces as it goes down the wrong pipe.

“Pardon?” he croaks after a moment. “Whatever for?”

Granny cackles. 

“Who knows what you did now, but if you want to keep what’s left of your ass, you may need to run,” she says wisely before pulling off. 

Ichabod watches her go, contemplating the wisdom of her suggestion. Latisha on the warpath? Not the type of day he had in mind. But what could he have possibly done since the last time he’d angered her? 

He considers the merit of his options. Feasibly, he could avoid Latisha until dinner, barricading himself in his study with his books, his tablet and his Xbox – more than enough to occupy his time until she calmed. On the other hand, he had no real plans that required him at the Manor… perhaps he should seek entertainment in one of the quieter and less frequented parks and watch people whilst reaping the benefits of fresh air.

The cappuccino machine beeps and Ichabod quickly grabs the hot drink as carefully as he can and takes the back stairs two at a time. Latisha hardly ever uses those stairs, so the risk of coming across her before reaching his study is unlikely.

At the top of the stairs Ichabod discreetly peers into the hallway. He sees and hears no one. Confident the coast is clear and congratulating himself on managing to successfully skulk about in his own home, he pushes open the door to his study and almost yelps when his favorite gaming chair turns to reveal Latisha with a rather flat expression. 

Gathering himself Ichabod straightens and continues into the room. 

“Latisha, to what do I owe the distinct pleasure?”

“Save it,” she says, raising her hand in warning. “Ichabod, you know I love you, right?”

“I am reminded daily,” he reassures her.

“Remember when I said that if Carol or I tell Melody she can’t have or do something, you can’t give it to her because it sets a bad precedence?”

Ichabod immediately turns back his memory, attempting to locate the instance where he defied her or Carol’s wishes. 

“Absolutely,” he says promptly.

Latisha narrows her eyes. 

“You have no clue what I’m referring to, do you?” 

Ichabod straightens his already perfect posture. 

“I am reluctant to admit I do not know what I’ve given Melody that you told her she could not have. Since the last time,” he hastily corrects.

Latisha pinches the bridge of her nose. 

“Her hair?” she prompts. “She has to learn to keep her headscarf on at night if she wants her hair to look nice in the morning. You took her to the braiding salon.”

Ichabod frowns. 

“I did no such thing,” he says. “Melody did ask, but I firmly kept my word that I would not take her if you or Carol had not given me express permission.”

Latisha still looks unconvinced. 

“Ichabod, I saw her hair.”

Ichabod smiles proudly, unconsciously sticking out his chest. 

“I did quite the job, didn’t I?” he asks.

Latisha blinks. 

“What?”

“The craftsmanship you so admired does not come from the lovely Dominican ladies at your favorite salon, but from these very hands,” Ichabod proclaims. 

“How?” is all she can say.

“Melody introduced me to an area of YouTube I had not known existed; there truly is a tutorial for everything.”

“You… you telling me you did that amazing hair crown and those ringlets by watching YouTube,” Latisha clarifies.

“Indeed,” Ichabod says smugly. 

Latisha sags, all the anger she’d had dissipating in an instant. 

“Oh,” she says, no longer able to reprimand him. “I’m… sorry I assumed.”

“It’s quite alright,” Ichabod says magnanimously as Latisha vacates his favorite chair. “I have learned my lesson from the previous time, I assure you.”

Latisha smiles fondly. 

“I know, and I should’ve known now. I’ll leave you to your books and your doughnuts.” She turns and pauses just before the door. “What in the world did Melody tell you to get you to try to do her hair?” she asks wonderingly. 

“She merely asked,” Ichabod says. “And she reminded me that my future child may have hair textured like hers and I should get as much practice as I can before I’m needed.”

Latisha smirks, shaking her head at the ingenuity of her child. 

“That’s true,” she concedes. “Though your child could have any of one or several textures and curl patterns on their head,” she says.

Ichabod frowns. 

“What’s a curl pattern?”

~*~

Ichabod never considered himself overly concerned with hair. He had a way he wanted his to look and he took measures to keep it clean and neat but beyond that, it was merely a covering for his head and face.

He had no clue about half the products the modern era practically demanded one use, nor had he any inkling of what Latisha explained was the “politics of hair”. But if anything, Ichabod is a student, so he closed his mouth and learned everything he could. After almost an entire day, he emerged from his self-imposed Youtube crash course with a strange look on his face.

Latisha pauses as she passes him. 

“Are you alright, old man?” she asks fondly.

Ichabod takes her hand somberly. 

“I say this because I do believe I truly understand the sentiment behind the vernacular now, but…”

“But what?” she prompts.

Ichabod sighs. 

“ _White people_ , I am aghast,” he says heavily.

Latisha blinks and bursts out laughing.

~*~

Ichabod smiles down at the figure snuggling against him. 

“Are you comfortable, my Siren?”

“Maybe,” Abbie mutters, feeling as if she can finally relax. 

One of Ichabod’s greatest joys is knowing his Siren inside and out. It’s late in Abbie’s pregnancy and though she doesn’t admit it, it’s harder for her to move around. Despite her complaints about the doctor ordered bed rest, she’s tired more often than not and needs the help.

So, Ichabod has taken the initiative to bundle Abbie up and spirit her away to the manor. 

There’s a knock on his door and Ichabod checks to see if Abbie wants any company. 

“They can come in,” she says.

“Enter,” Ichabod says, and smiles as his many times great-granddaughter bounces into the room. 

“Oh, you are here,” she says softly, glancing between her hero and her grandfather. “Siren, I mean Miss Abbie, can I say hi?” Melody asks, trying desperately to retain her excitement at seeing her. 

Abbie snorts. 

“You want to say hi to me or the baby?” she asks, pointing to her ridiculously large belly.

Melody is slightly embarrassed. She has a horrible habit of talking to Abbie’s stomach for hours at a time without engaging Abbie, too. 

“Both?” she tries.

“Good answer.” Abbie pats the empty bed beside her and Melody squeals softly, toeing out of her house shoes to climb into the bed next to her. 

“Our girl scout troop just had a party to celebrate the whole troop getting our Fiscal Responsibility patch. Granddad let us decide our own theme and everything so we went with princess warriors because you can kick butt and still want to wear a really pretty dress,” Melody says, breaking out her phone and after a second of furious swiping, passes it to Abbie to see. 

“They did so well I thought it prudent to celebrate their most recent success,” Ichabod says, as if he doesn’t need half a reason to throw a ball-type affair.

Abbie takes the phone and smiles as various young girls in fancy-looking dresses pose with fake swords belted to their waists. They look very proud with a pleased Ichabod standing behind them all.

“You all look so beautiful,” she says, finding Melody off to the side in a bright yellow dress made for spinning around a dance floor with a battle axe in her hand. Her dark hair is pinned up in complex curls with ringlets cascading down the side of her neck, and looks magnificent on her. “Where’d you get your hair done?”

“Granddad did it,” Melody said promptly. “He did Zabrina’s hair, too. Her mom didn’t want her to come because she couldn’t afford a dress, but Granddad and I got her a dress in her favorite color--blue--and then he did her hair. She had fun.”

“I’m glad,” Abbie says thickly, staring up at Ichabod with shining eyes. “That was a very nice thing to do.”

Melody shrugs one shoulder as she absently rubs on Abbie’s stomach. 

“Grandad didn’t think something like a dress should keep someone from having fun with their friends. And Zabrina would do the same for me so I do the same for her.”

“And that’s what you do,” Abbie agrees. 

“Hi in there,” Melody coos to Abbie’s stomach. “I can’t wait until you get here so I can talk to you face to face!”

Abbie silently agrees, and with amusement watches the girl’s phone beep.

“I gotta go, I’ve got a kickboxing class,” Melody says proudly. She kisses Abbie’s stomach and cheek. “Will you be here when I get back?” 

“Yes, she will, dear heart,” Ichabod says, ignoring Abbie’s brief glare. “Enjoy your class.”

“Kick ass, Melody,” Abbie chimes in as the young girl scrambles off the bed and rushes out the room. “Oh, I’ll be here when she gets back, huh?”

“My love, can you imagine any force strong enough to get you to move from this bed right now?” Ichabod asks.

“Don’t get smug,” Abbie snaps with no real heat. “So, you do hair now?” she drawls.

Ichabod nods proudly. 

“It’s proving to be quite the skill to have.”

Abbie tries not to laugh. 

“Oh really?”

“Yes. My skill is growing and I am becoming highly sought after,” he says. 

Abbie rolls her eyes and just as she opens her mouth to retort there’s another knock at his door. 

“Enter,” Ichabod calls, and Latisha steps in, sheepishly. 

“Abbie, I’m sorry to take Ichabod from you, but I really need this French braid upsweep he can do. Ichabod?” she pleads. 

“Not a word,” Abbie says quietly as she rolled off of Ichabod’s side so he could attend to Latisha. 

He pauses and leans close. “I look forward to caring for our child’s hair as well.” 

“Didn’t I tell you not to say anything?” Abbie grumbles, her eyes suspiciously bright.

**Author's Note:**

> I want to thank Irishlullaby13 for letting me play in her sandbox. I have been fascinated with Ichabod and Melody's relationship and how she brings it to life, three parts adorable and one part hilarious.


End file.
